Stones, Rocks, Nominative Determinism

 

Acts: 4:1-22

A long time ago, back and back and back, it used to be that you got your name from your father, of course, but, more specifically, from the trade in which your father worked, and thus, the trade in which you would also eventually work. Your last name was a reflection of where you were from or what you would do for the rest of your life. You didn’t just “have” a name; you lived it. Thus, all the Bakers, Hunters, Masons, Taylors, Carpenters, Smiths, and Archers that we know of today. Your vocation and purpose in life was tied to your name, and it was passed down to you by your father. You did what your name said. 

These days, of course, we’ve left that behind, at least, for the most part. Just because your last name is Haymaker doesn’t mean you have to spend your life around hay. Just because your last name happens to be Cleaver doesn’t mean you are destined to be a butcher. There’s freedom now. More opportunity. At least for those of us living in the developed world. We get to choose. And thank goodness. Millers don’t have to work at the flour mill. Cooks don’t have to be stuck in the kitchen. Brewers can make something other than beer, if they so choose, (but why would they?) and Farmers can run insurance companies instead of plowing fields, if that is what their hearts desire. 

Except. Except there’s this strange thing happening. Folks are starting to notice that there are strange coincidences between people’s names and how they tend to show up in the world. Joe Smileys tend to be pretty optimistic. People with the name “Dennis” are more likely, statistically speaking, to become dentists. And maybe it’s not such a coincidence that Mrs. Sternson was your fourth grade teacher. Or that David Counsell grew up to be a lawyer. 

There’s this hypothesis roaming around out there that people tend to gravitate toward areas of work and ways of showing up in the world which reflect their names. It may be that people, maybe subconsciously, live their lives in a way that reflects their names. They call this “nominative determination.” Their names, maybe, just might determine who they will become.  Rather than just being told that because your father is a Baker, so you, too, will be a baker, there are actually an awful lot of Bakers who are choosing to become…bakers. A classic example is Usain Bolt. Now that’s a perfect name for the fastest man on earth if ever I’ve heard one. Did he, somehow, subconsciously, live in to his name? Was he influenced by his name to work hard and thus bolt out of the starting blocks to become the world’s fastest sprinter? Maybe? Or what about William Wordsworth, who would, indeed, write many words of great worth? Or my favorite is a musician that Dan and I love named Andrew Bird. He’s a brilliant violinist, a talented singer-songwriter, and, fascinatingly, and expert whistler. He really does sound like a bird. Other examples are Daniel Snowman, a leading researcher of the Arctic and Antarctic poles. Sue Yoo is an actual, real life lawyer. One of my colleagues in ministry who is a Lutheran pastor and Spiritual Director has the last name of “Devine.” In fact, researchers even found that if your name started with the letter A or B, you were more likely to get better grades in school than those with other names. It’s almost as if your name determines who you become. It’s almost as if, even though the cultural tradition of living the life your father lived has long ago died off, it still, to a curious frequency, has some influence on who we become. Nominative Determinism - your name, however subconsciously, just might determine how you live, what you choose, how you act, what you do. 

This could absolutely just be coincidence. A load of hogwash. Something for Redditors to argue over at 3 am in internet chatrooms. But then, I was reminded that “Frayer” is a form of “friar” - a devout religious leader who works among the people…

Perhaps what we’re named has some influence on who we become. Maybe we really do, to some extent, consciously or subconsciously live in to what we’re named. Seems safe to say that Jesus thought so. Jesus gives Simon the name “Peter” which means rock. Jesus calls Peter “rock.”  When Jesus called Peter “The Rock,” it wasn’t because he was such a solid stand up guy at the time. It wasn’t because Jesus was picking the most stable person upon which to build his church. But, as we read through the Acts of the Apostles, Peter does, eventually, become “Peter” - The Rock.

And in our reading today, names become vitally important. One’s name and one’s power went hand in hand. A bunch of uneducated peasant nobodies are performing miraculous healings, and Mr. Judge and Reverend Powerful and Doctor Moneybags demand to know under whose name, under what power, they’ve been doing these things. Who gave you the power to do this? Under what name does your power come from? 

And Peter could have responded, “well, I did it. The power came from me.” But he doesn’t. He says it’s Jesus; the power is in Jesus’s name. But he says it in a strange sort of way, a way that not only refers back to scripture, but also, however tangentially, refers back to the name given to Peter by Jesus, the name that he would one day, live in to. And I don’t know what to do with this, or if it means anything at all, but Peter says it’s the stone that the builders rejected - Jesus - that has given him this power. It’s all about Jesus here, absolutely, 100%, but strangely, there is a connection to Peter as well. If Jesus is the stone, and Peter is the rock, then is there all that much difference between the two? I mean, how much difference is there between a stone and a rock? Could Peter be saying something to the effect of, “Well, it was me, but it was absolutely not me.” It’s in the name of Jesus that I have found in myself, that I have somehow determined myself to be, that any of these good things are done.

Was Peter yet another example of Nominative Determinism? Did Peter become who Jesus named him to be?

It’s very possible that I’m seeing connections where there are none. But it’s also possible that Peter, in this passage, is becoming who Jesus named him to be - the rock who heals by the power of the stone that the builders rejected. Jesus tells Peter that upon him - upon this rock, Jesus will build his church. And Peter tells these religious elites that the stone that they have rejected - Jesus - is the chief cornerstone. Peter is called by Jesus to be a cornerstone. And Peter tells these religious leaders that Jesus is the cornerstone. Jesus gave him a new name, a new name to live in to, and well, that name also so happens to be Jesus’s, too. And maybe, just maybe, it’s our nominally determined name as well. What is the difference between a rock and a stone? Not much. So what is the difference between Jesus and Peter? Well, everything, but also, if the power of Jesus is working through Peter, if Peter is living in to the name that Jesus gave him, then, well, not much. The two merge. Jesus is present in and among Peter. Present in and among us.

I think that when we are being our truest, realest, holiest selves, Jesus is present in and among us. Stones and rocks become so similar, that in many practical ways, they’re the same thing. And that’s just a crazy, wild thing to think about.

Peter tells these religious elite that Jesus is the name that determines his actions. And Jesus is the name that will determine his actions from now on. Nominative Determinism. This name, the name of Jesus, will determine who we become. There’s no other name than the one we’ve been given that will determine what will save us. Only the name that Jesus gives. And Jesus gives his very name, his very self. 

Jesus, Yeshua, literally means, “God saves.” And Jesus, Yeshua, is one of the most common names used in the region at the time. Just a common name. And the one name under heaven whereby we must be saved.

C.S. Lewis said that we are to become “little Christs.” 

Saint Teresa of Avila said, “Christ has no body but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which Christ looks with compassion on the world.”

Are we little Christs? Are we the hands and feet of Christ? Do we all carry the very common name of Jesus inside us all?

Has God determined us to be the way through which God saves the world? 

Have we been nominally determined to be rocks and stones and Christs to this world? 

The religious elites see that these guys are just plain, ordinary men. But they couldn’t deny that this “aged” forty year old man had been healed. What would happen if this power from God were to spread to all of the plain, ordinary people throughout the land? What would happen if you, too, were given the name of Jesus under which to perform amazing, God-saving deeds? Sounds like the kingdom of God might come.

Peter and the gang are warned, while still prisoners, to stop using this name. They’re told to cut it out. It’s too wild. Too powerful. The world would be turned upside down if they kept living in to this nominative determinism. They command them to stop preaching and teaching in the name of Jesus. And Peter and John respond, “we can’t help but speak about what we have seen and heard.” Jesus is in us now. In us and through us and among us. Our identities are in Jesus now. There is no other way through which to look at the world. I am the rock. Jesus is the stone. There is no longer any difference.

Are we living our lives in such a way that the Powers that Be must ask us, “Under whose name do you do these deeds?” Are we living our lives in such a way as to respond, “Jesus of Nazareth. And he has given his name to us all”? Are we, too, rocks and stones? I guess that’s for us to choose.

Will we accept the nominative determinism that is ours? Maybe it's influencing us and we don't even realize it.

It’s our namesake. It’s our future. It’s our right now. As inheritors of the name of Christ, as Christians, may it determine who we are, and who we become. Let us live in to the name that has been given to us, the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.

Thanks be to God. 

Toxic Positivity or Tragic Optimism? Doubting Thomas and My Favorite Lectionary Passage

John 20:19-31

  It might be true that “everything happens for a reason.” It might even be true that I need to just “look on the bright side,” “think positive,” and that “it could always be worse.” But when I’m struggling, like really struggling, these are the last words I want to hear. When something has gone wrong, when I’m experiencing anxiety, or having intrusive thoughts, if somebody comes up to me and says, “Well, it could be worse,” I just want to punch them in the nose. I don’t of course. I say, “thank you.” I say, “you’re so right.” And then I remember not to call that person the next time I’m going through something. 

They call this type of language “toxic positivity,” and most of the time, when it’s used, people mean well. This language usually comes out of the best of intentions. Maybe folks don’t know what to say to someone when they’re grieving, so they just say the first so-called “upbeat” thing that comes to their minds. Maybe folks even really, truly believe that we should do as they say, we should just “think happy thoughts,” or that we’re “too blessed to be stressed,” or that we should be grateful to know another angel in heaven, and so they share their wisdom with us. And hey, if these words are comforting to you, by all means, hold on to them. 

But for many of us, in the midst of the break-up or the death, the foreclosure or the lost job, these words only remind us of what we’ve lost, of how we’ve failed, of how others have let us down. Worse than, you know, bopping someone on the nose, when we take in this toxic positivity, we bypass our real feelings, we stuff them down or away, and then our grief or anger or sadness comes bubbling up days or even years later, stronger, and able to do much more damage on our psyches, our relationships, and our lives. 

Even when we say things like “God is in control,” or that I just need to “rise above,” it can be a form of spiritual bypassing. We’re trying to avoid the hurt rather than deal with it, because we are desperate to end the pain we’re experiencing as quickly as possible. And again, it very well may be true that God really does have a plan, and that God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good, but when I’m really in the thick of it, when I’ve really been put through the wringer, at best, it simply goes in one ear and out the other, and at worst, somebody ends up with a bloody nose.

I wonder if that’s what Thomas thought, after he knocked the secret knock, shook the secret handshake, and the disciples let him in to the dark house. Thomas’s arms are full of the necessities that only he was brave enough to go out and fetch - the toilet paper, the canned Vienna sausages, the bread and milk - and he’s about to complain to the rest of the disciples for being their errand boy and how they’re all a bunch of cowards, when they take all these things out of his hands, set him down at the table, and say, “We have seen the Lord!” Yeah. Right. Sure. You’ve “seen him in your hearts.” You’re “feeling a little better now.” We can “keep our chins up.” “Everything happens for a reason.” 

I wonder if Thomas receives this good news as simply another well-meaning attempt to make him feel better after the devastating events of the last week. Does Thomas hear these words and want to punch them all in the nose? Is this just another case of toxic positivity?  

His refusal to believe them is so adamant that he finally has to tell them what it would take for him to believe — to see the wounds, to see the hands and the feet where the nails went in, to see the evidence of the trauma that Jesus went through, that they all went through. 

Thomas needs to be believed, to be reminded that what he went through this past week was real, that all this horrible stuff really truly did happen. He refuses to give in to the gaslighting that it seems like these disciples are trying to do to him. “We have seen the Lord!” - as if the betrayal, the denials, the flogging and the crucifixion didn’t even happen. As if everything could go back to the way it was before. As if they could all just pick up where they left off as if nothing ever happened. All better now! Jesus is back! I don’t know why we were so upset in the first place! We’re too blessed to be stressed! God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle! 

No. Thomas can’t take that kind of whitewashing over the events of these past few days. He is forever changed by the heartbreak he’s experienced, and no amount of idealism or positivity is going to get him to deny the reality of what has happened. “No. Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my hand in his side, I will not believe.” No. I’ve got to see evidence that something impossibly awful happened, before I can believe that something impossibly amazing has occurred. Without the cross, there is no resurrection. Resurrection without the cross is meaningless.

Victor Frankl says that the antidote to this kind of toxic positivity is what he calls “tragic optimism.” Frankl was a Holocaust survivor and a renowned psychologist, so he has both scholarly expertise and what the kids call “street cred.” Tragic optimism isn’t the whitewashing of events, or the ignoring of the trauma, or taking a short cut around the hard feelings; rather it is a “search for meaning in the midst of the inevitable tragedies of our lives.” 

The search for meaning in the midst of the inevitable tragedies of our lives. 

Now, listen carefully to what I’m not saying. I’m not saying that “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” but rather, “when life gives you these hard, impossible, tragical experiences, it’s not the experience itself that is of value, no not at all, but there can be growth in the aftermath of the event, if we take the time to fully process what has happened. If we take the time to go through the pain, the hard thing, and not try to find a short cut around it, we will come out the other side new, changed, and, dare I say resurrected, people. So it’s not that we’re grateful for the tragic event. No. Not at all. But as we try to sort through the rubble of our lives afterward, we can find that something new is being built, something different is being reborn, something is coming from the ashes. 

In order for us to find the meaning in the resurrection, we have to find the meaning in the cross. In order to find meaning in the cross, we have to go to the cross. We have to stick our fingers in it. We have to feel the gash in his side. And then we have to sit in how utterly horrible it was. We have to mourn. We have to get angry. We have to feel all the feelings. The only way out is through. 

And, I think Thomas gets this. Unless he finds meaning in the cross, he will not believe the resurrection. And I don’t mean a utilitarian kind of meaning, a kind of meaning that says, “Well, you gotta crack a few eggs if you want to make an omelet,” but a kind of growth, a strength, a new perspective, a better understanding, that only comes from walking through the fire and coming out the other side. 

Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t expect any of them to “just have faith” to just “let go and let God.” The disciples just don’t happen to mention it to Thomas, at least not in our text. But the disciples really did get the full truth of it. Jesus didn’t come to them all bright and new and full of toxic positivity. He didn’t jump through the window with bunny ears and a tale and say, “Surprise! April Fools!” He showed them his hands. He showed them his side. He showed them both the tragedy and the meaning of the tragedy. And then they believed. They didn’t believe because of some kind of toxic optimism, some pipe dream, or crazy delusion. They believed because what they saw was honest and real and hard. Jesus gave them tragic optimism.

And he gives Thomas the same. Look and my wounds. Touch the hurt. Get close to the pain. Be real about it. This is the only way you’ll be changed. The only way you’ll be transformed. The only way that you’ll be resurrected. If you find some kind of truthful, honest, real meaning in the scars. 

I am here with you. Right here. Right now. Right in the midst of what you’re feeling. 

When we are present with one who is suffering, we are in the presence of the holy.

Platitudes and quick solutions are not going to fix this. Only Christ’s presence.

I used to think that this was a horrible berating of Thomas at the end of the story, when Jesus says, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” As if Thomas is this anti-hero or antagonist to show us why we all should do better, believe harder, and trust more than he did. “Don’t be a doubting Thomas!” folks say whenever there’s struggle or a so called “lack” of faith. I see it differently now. 

I think we need to remember the first words that Jesus says to the disciples - “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” As the Father has sent me to show you my scars and that yet I still live, so does God send you to show your scars, and that you, too, still live. 

Blessed are those see Christ’s crucifixion everywhere there is suffering and still refuse to believe that that is the end of it. Blessed are those who carry their scars, who witness the scars of others, and stubbornly wait for a resurrection. Blessed are those who are not content with toxic positivity, but who hold out a little longer to get to the tragic optimism. There is no resurrection without the cross.

Thanks be to God.

Holding Emptiness

                                                                image from Jon J Muth's Zen Ties

John 20:1-18

 When my kids were little, my favorite books to read to them were written and illustrated by John J. Muth. He writes magical stories with magical illustrations that all reflect the importance of kindness, mindfulness, patience. In his “Zen” series, Muth writes about Stillwater, a giant panda who lives next door to three siblings, Karl, Addy, and Michael. This giant panda, unaware that giant pandas don’t typically live in traditional human neighborhoods, takes them on wonderful journeys through their own minds, never leaving their neighborhood, simply by teaching them to observe and be mindful of the world around them. Everything is filled with wonder, if we just pay attention, if we just have eyes to see. One day, Stillwater’s nephew, Koo, comes for a visit. After Stillwater picks Koo up from the train station, they gather at a nearby park where they spread out a blanket and have tea together from red plastic cups. When Koo finishes his tea, he says to his uncle, "My cup holds emptiness now. Where shall I put it?” My cup holds emptiness. Not, “my cup is empty.” The cup is still holding something, even if it is just emptiness, according to Koo.

So I want to thank you all for coming to worship today, even if you feel like your cup holds emptiness. Maybe you’re here because it’s tradition, or maybe you’re just here because it makes your grandma happy, or maybe you’re just here because you were told there would be a delicious brunch after. Whatever the reason, thank you for being here, for participating in the witness of this empty tomb. Presbyterian darling and theological giant, Karl Barth, said that "what brings people to worship - not just on Easter, but any day - is an unspoken question clinging to their hearts and minds, and that question is simply this: ‘Is it true?’” So I’m also hoping that a part of you, even if it is just a tiny part, is here to ask the question, “Is it true?” So often we parade Easter around as if it were just for the “true believers,” but if we read the resurrection stories closely, we will find that that first Easter Sunday was a day of confusion, questions, and doubt. So, welcome to Doubter’s Sunday, to all who participate. Cheers to you, with our cups that also hold emptiness.

Let’s listen to how this resurrection story today also holds emptiness.

Mary Magdalene goes out to tend to Jesus’s body, as is the custom, when it is very early in the morning. It is so early, in fact, that it’s dark, the sky is empty of light. And instead of finding the tomb covered by a large stone, she finds the stone has been moved, the entrance empty of anything blocking her way. And so she starts to run. She finds Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved and tells them that the tomb is empty, there is no body. The tomb holds emptiness now. And she is distraught. Peter and the other disciple run off, leaving her in the dust, and they run toward the emptiness. They have no idea what they will find, and still, they run - they race - toward it. I imagine their flip-flops clapping away on the hard dusty road as they literally race toward the tomb. But the other disciple, who’d probably spent more time sprinting during recess, beats Peter to the emptiness. And he stops in his tracks. What he sees is astonishing. He sees…nothing. The grave clothes are empty. The linen wrappings that held the body hold nothing now. When Peter finally catches up to him, Peter doesn’t hesitate; he enters the empty tomb. He looks around, and sees, essentially, nothing. Just the same empty linen wrappings, the face cloth folded neatly to the side, with obviously no face contained within. The tomb is empty. The tomb holds nothingness. They look around, see the emptiness, and then…they go home. 

But Mary is astonished by the emptiness, bewildered by the emptiness, and fighting despair because of all of this emptiness. And so she sits by this emptiness and weeps. She stays with the emptiness. Even when the emptiness in the tomb is replaced with angels, she is distraught. Nothing can fill her heart except Jesus. Even when the emptiness in the tomb is filled with Jesus himself, she only sees the gardener. But when he fills the tomb with her name, when he says, “Mary,” she turns to him, she recognizes him, lunges toward him. Jesus is present, right there, right in front of her, simply in the saying of her name, but when she tries to hold on to him, Jesus tells her not to. It’s not time to hold on to him. It’s time to hold on to the emptiness now. And he sends her off, to spread the news of this emptiness to the rest of the disciples. He says, “tell them that I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” He instructs her to tell them about the empty entrance, the empty tomb, the empty grave clothes, he tells her to not cling to what is here in front of her, but to tell them that Jesus is leaving, ascending, joining with the Father who is now everyone’s Father, connecting back to God who is now everyone’s God. The first sermon after the resurrection is preached by a woman who preaches of emptiness. She carries emptiness to the disciples and proclaims this emptiness as the best of news. Jesus isn’t here. He’s risen. The tomb is empty. Alleluia. Where once my cup held the broken body of my Lord, now, it only holds emptiness. Alleluia.

Our story ends with a wondering, “what will happen next?” With an empty tomb, anything can happen. With a risen Savior, anything is possible. When first the emptiness brought Mary despair and brokenness, now it fills her with potential, possibility, the emptiness of the unknown. Doubt turns to wonder, and curiosity, and the future is just a cup, waiting to be filled. It’s all potential, now, a world empty and open, welcoming your contribution to the cup. 

The resurrection disrupts all of our expectations. Mary expects a tomb, filled with a body. She finds a tomb, holding nothing but emptiness. Everything is turned upside down. The whole paradigm has shifted. Suddenly emptiness is everything. 

Resurrection is everywhere there is emptiness. Resurrection is found in the empty cups and the empty seeds and the tombs, cracked open, empty. 

Let’s proclaim today “Doubter’s Sunday,” a day for us all to revel in our own emptiness, because that is where our salvation is found. So I encourage us all to take a moment to just hold emptiness today. Hold the empty. Be the cup that holds the empty tomb, the vessel that holds the absence that is the resurrection, the nothing that becomes, for us, everything. Because Jesus is ascending to be with God, so that all things can hold God’s presence, all things, especially the empty ones, can tell of the resurrection of Christ. Jesus has emptied the tomb and is now uniting with God so that we can now see that all things, even death, even emptiness, hold the presence of God. 

Let us run toward the emptiness - our unknown futures, our risky relationships, our aching hearts - with the wild abandon of the disciples. 

Let us sit and weep with the emptiness - our fear, our doubts, our uncertainties, our despair - with the present persistence of Mary Magdalene. 

“My cup holds emptiness now. Where shall I put it?” Koo asks.

Stillwater answers him, “Hold on to it. We can fill it up again and again.”

The world is filled with the empty tomb. It’s filled with the emptiness of God, which is, simply, the presence of the resurrected Christ. Let’s lean in to the emptiness. Let’s run toward the risen One. Who knows what we will find? If we look closely with wonder and expectation, even the nothing that we find will be a kind of resurrection.

“Is it true?” You ask. 

Does your cup hold emptiness now?

Alleluia. And amen. 

Thanks be to God.

To See the Face of God

Hear these words from the Gospel of Luke: 

44 It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, 45 for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. 46 Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”[e] When he had said this, he breathed his last.

47 The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, “Surely this was a righteous man.” 48 When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. 49 But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.

On April 8th, 2024, just 10 days from now, in the middle of the day, the sun will disappear. At least, for those of us who still happen to be on this part of the continent. And the sun won’t really disappear; rather, it will be hidden from view by the moon, hence the name “solar eclipse.” And it won’t entirely disappear unless you find yourself in the “path of totality,” which cuts through the heart of the United States, up through Erie, PA and beyond. If you’re in that path of totality, the day will turn to night, and you’ll have the eerie experience of darkness when darkness isn’t supposed to be. 

Now there are all kinds of warnings out there about the dangers of this particular day. People might be so amazed by this phenomenon that they forget that staring at the sun can have dire consequences. In fact, according to NASA, “Except during the brief total phase of a total solar eclipse, when the Moon completely blocks the Sun’s bright face, it is not safe to look directly at the Sun without specialized eye protection for solar viewing. Viewing any part of the bright Sun through a camera lens, binoculars, or a telescope without a special-purpose solar filter secured over the front of the optics will instantly cause severe eye injury.” There will be one moment, and just one moment, when it will be safe to look directly at the sun, and that is precisely when it is completely hidden by the moon. Other than that on moment, we risk serious damage to our eyes.

How strange that we’ll be able to look at the sun only as soon as its light is blocked out.

Now according to the Gospel of Luke, it is precisely when Jesus dies that “darkness came over the whole land” and the sun stops shining. Some folks say, that it is at this precise moment that the astronomical phenomena of a solar eclipse also happened, although historians and scientists have yet to prove that this was the case. Nonetheless, Luke records a strange occurrence where the sun just disappears, something has blocked it, something has ceased its shine, something has blotted it out, precisely at the moment of Jesus’s death on the cross. And, precisely at the moment of Jesus’s death, precisely when the sun is blotted out, the centurion sees and understands what has happened, responding with praise to God. And, precisely at the moment of Jesus’s death, precisely when the sun is blotted out, “all the people who gathered to witness this sight saw what took place.” And precisely at the moment of Jesus’s death, precisely when the sun is blotted out, “all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching,” seeing. 

How strange the people are able to see as soon as the lights are turned out.

This reminds me of the story of Moses in Exodus 33. Moses has these meetings with God at the appropriately named “tent of meeting,” but the Israelites don’t get to go near it. In fact, they can’t even see it, for God is hidden by a “pillar of cloud.” Now when Moses asks God to show him God’s glory, God responds, in part, with “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” God then arranges it so that Moses is able to see God’s back, but God’s face “must not be seen.” And so, like the sun, the face of God cannot be seen without some dire consequences.

Another story, involving Moses, is one we’ve talked about recently. It’s that strange story of the poisonous snakes in the desert, and all these people who are getting bit and dying. So Moses erects a bronze image of a snake, puts it up high on a pole, and anyone who has been bitten and looks up at that image is instantly healed. Later, in John 3, Jesus brings up that story, and says, “Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.” 

When the sun is blocked, it is then that we can look upon it.

When Jesus dies, it is then, in that darkness that we can see.

How strange it is that in order to find healing for ourselves, we must look upon the death of God. 

Can you hold all these stories together? Can you see the thread that connects them all?

When the sun’s rays are no longer seen, it is then that we can look upon it.

When the sun stops shining and Jesus dies, it is then that the centurion and the crowds and Jesus’s followers are able to see.

When God hides God’s face, revealing only God’s back, it is then that Moses can see a glimpse of who God is.

When we look upon the cross, when Jesus is lifted up, it is then that we can see eternal life.

It’s only in total darkness that we can bear to see the face of God.

This is what makes this Friday, “good.”

When we look upon the cross, we see the face of God.

In Elie Wiesel’s Nobel Prize winning masterpiece, Night, he tells the semi-autobiographic story of his experiences as a Jew during the Holocaust. He depicts horrific event after horrific event, almost to the point where you and the main character, become numb to them. The abuse is so terrible that you stop really seeing it. The stories are so horrifying that you must simply look away. Toward the end of the book, Wiesel is describing the hangings that would occur in the camp from time to time, often punishment for small infractions, but meant as a symbol to the rest of the prisoners of what happens when you do not toe the line. They would be be gathered into the courtyard for these hangings, forced to watch until the punished died, and then forced to line up and walk past their bodies as they hung from the gallows. One day, two men and one small boy were sentenced to death. The soldiers kicked out the chairs from under them, and the two men, being heavier, died within a few seconds. The boy, however, too light for the rope to fully snap his neck, hung there, struggling between life and death, for over a half an hour. As the prisoners marched in line to witness these deaths, one man calls out in despair, “Where is merciful God, where is he? For God’s sake, where is God?” And Eliezer looked to this small struggling boy and responds, “Where is he? Here he is. He is hanging here on the gallows.”

You want to see the face of God and live? You must enter the darkness. You must let your heart break. You must be taken to the edge of your faith. You must wait until the day turns into night before you can see. It’s only in total darkness that we can bear to see the face of God. Come to the cross. Enter the darkness. 

Today we are in the path of totality. 

Look directly at the Son. 

Thanks be to God. 

At the Feet of the Disciples

 

John 13:1-35

Matthew’s were full of calluses. His feet were hardened by the Galilean roads, the flimsy sandals he wore, the miles and miles he walked with them. When I washed his feet, after the initial shock, he relaxed into the experience, a pedicure, a day at the spa. I rubbed right under his instep, trying to soothe all those places he held his fear. 

Andrew’s toes cracked loudly when I washed his feet. He stretched them out as if he’d been wearing too tight shoes for too long. He was embarrassed by the sound, and the other disciples laughed. They’d all been holding so much in. I’d taken them on quite a journey. And now it was almost over. 

John’s feet were thin and swift, nails short-clipped, he had high arches and a strong heel. He was our runner, he could walk for miles without getting tired, he never complained. 

James’s feet were dry and cracked and brittle. He always looked as if he were on the brink of tears. I was gentle, dabbing the cloth rather than wiping, so as not to tear his tender skin. 

Thomas’s feet had been severely neglected. He was our wanderer. We’d lose track of him for hours, and then somehow he’d show up right at mealtimes, usually with a new mouth to feed or a sweet pastry to share. His feet were crooked with bunions, from trying to force his feet into shoes that didn’t fit. I gently pulled on his toes, stretched out his ligaments, tried to tell him that he belonged. 

Peter, well, Peter took me awhile. I could hear everyone’s eyes rolling as he argued with me. They were ready for dinner. But Peter had pulled his robe taut over this legs, trying to hide the feet below, as if he were trying to convince me that he had no feet at all. He wouldn’t let me near them at first. I think he was ashamed of the state of his feet, the dirt under his nails, the corn on his heel, the mud in all the little cracks and wrinkles of his sole. So silly. Doesn’t he know that everyone’s feet get dirty? But when Peter is passionate about something, he dives right in, all the way, and neglects everything else around him, including his feet. So of course, when I insisted, when I told him that I must wash his feet in order for him to have any part of me, he went in whole hog, he wanted his whole body cleaned as well. Easy there, Peter. You’re clean, you’re fine, just as you are. There is such thing as moderation, you know. 

Finally, I came to Judas. His feet were blackened by the tar in the roads, bruised from pacing and worry. I washed his feet too. I started in back, with his heel, the one that would turn against me. I dipped the towel into the basin, let the water seep into its folds. I wrapped the towel around his heel, felt his achilles tendon contract at the touch. It’s ok, I tried to tell him. I know what these feet must do. But still I tried to scrub them clean. They were such strong, willing feet. Earnest feet. Feet ready to change the world. I thought about his father’s smile the first time his feet carried him to his arms. About the giggles that would erupt when his mother tickled and kissed his toes. About all the roads his feet had seen. All the roads we’d walked together. I rinsed out the towel in the basin, rung out the excess, and as I worked down over his tibia, the ligaments in his instep, I thought about the first day we met, how I loved him immediately, without hesitation. And about how I loved him still. Even though he was breaking my heart. 

They say that there is a connection between each part of the foot and every part of the body. The eyes are connected to the third metatarsal, the stomach, pancreas, and kidney to the arch, the sciatic nerve to the line that follows the achilles tendon. Just to the outside of the ball of the foot, they say, is the connection to the heart. I worked that spot hard, willing it to be clean, knowing it couldn’t be, loving it anyway. He was too much in his toes, where his brain and ears, neck and spine were kept. Again and again I wordlessly begged him with each swipe of the towel not to do this, to find another path, to walk a different road. Some tears mixed in with the dirty basin water. Maybe if I cleaned them really well, these feet would not walk out on me. Maybe if I paid closer attention to his arthritis, if I listened better to his heel spurs, massaged the tendonitis, he’d change his mind, he’d take a step back. But like a ballerina in her first pair of pointe shoes, he was all on his toes, all in his head, wrapping and fortifying his feet around so his toes could bear the weight. 

When the right foot didn’t seem to work, when I couldn’t get it clean, I tried again on his left, dipping the towel, wringing out the towel, unfolding the towel, the water splashing out if its bowl. I washed around the bottom, base and edge, around his heel and arch, past the ball, over his thick cuticles and between his toes. He almost laughed, a little smirk, when I reached his toes. Did he remember, then, his mother’s loving touch? 

Did he remember the first times his heart was broken, when his father didn’t return, when the kids laughed at school, when his mother cried herself to sleep every night? Did he recall all the times it cracked in two, again and again, from the disappointment, the broken relationship, the hope deferred? 

Did he remember all the hearts he’s broken since?

Did any of these disciples, my dear friends, recall the moment when they never thought they’d recover from the spurned love, the foreclosure on the house, the illness, the accident, the child who ran away? 

Do they remember the hearts they’ve broken, the mistakes they’ve made, the poor choices chosen? 

There is more to come. Soon, my broken heart will break theirs, and somehow they will have to find a way to keep going, to keep walking, to keep stepping forward. Somehow they will have to take their broken hearts and wash the feet of those who have broken them. They will have to find a way to let someone, whose heart they’ve broken, wash their own feet to healing. These are the only steps forward.

They are going to break each other’s hearts. 

Their hearts will all be broken. 

But, I wonder, will they wash their feet anyway, will they let their feet be washed? 

This is the only way. 

Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives these broken hearts receives me. And whoever receives my broken heart, receives the heart of God. 

Thanks be to God.